“People escape into other things; you don’t escape into poetry. You confront yourself when you are reading poems; they draw you inward, they don’t project you outward. I think people want to escape themselves. They do not want to do the work. They want to be entertained. Poetry is a kind of entertainment but a different kind, its meditative.”
There is a ghost in the machine of my body. The haunting
happens like this: I loll on the bed, open-mouthed,
acting dead. My husband asks, Are you dead
again? My gallbladder this time. If removed,
the ghost would return to inhabit my pancreas.
My lung swells with the ghost. It haunts and goes
deeper when I breathe. The ghost likes the smell
of trumpets and clapping. Today I am dead
on the kitchen floor. Are you dead?
Sometimes I say Yes, of course I’m dead. Other times he steps
around my dead body, opening cupboards, putting away the plates.”
“”The invention of the soul by man is hinted at every time the feeling appears that the body is a parasite, something like a worm adhering to the ego. It’s enough to feel that one lives (and not only life as an acceptance, as something-that-is-good-that-it-happened) for what is even closest and most loved by the body, the right hand , for example, suddenly to be an object that participates with repugnance in the double condition of not being me and clinging to me. I swallow my soup. Then in the midst of what I am reading, I think: “The soup is in me, I have it in this pouch which I will never see, my stomach.” I feel with two fingers and I touch the mass, the motion of food there inside. And I am this , a bag with food inside of it. Then the soul is born: “No I am not that.””